How to Seal Your Own Fate: A Novel - Softcover

Perrin, Kristen

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593474058 ISBN 13: 9780593474051

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

A NATIONAL BESTSELLER

“A brilliant follow-up that proves Kristen Perrin is here to stay...A thrilling story that ends with a big reveal you won't see coming, even though the clues were in front of you the entire time!”—G.T. Karber, international bestselling author of Murdle

New York Times bestselling author Kristen Perrin is back and better than ever with her second Castle Knoll Murder Mystery.

Welcome to Castle Knoll, the idyllic English village home to a surprising number of murderers.

Present day: Annie Adams is just settling into life in Castle Knoll when local fortune teller Peony Lane shares a cryptic message only hours before being found dead inside the locked Gravesdown Estate. Annie has no choice but to delve into the dark secrets of her new countryside home in order to find out just what Peony Lane was trying to warn her about, before her brand new life comes crashing down around her.

1967: Teenage Frances Adams, Annie’s great aunt, finds herself caught between two men. Ford Gravesdown is one of the only remaining members of a family known for its wealth and dubious uses of power. Archie Foyle is a local who can’t hold down a job and lives above the village pub. But when Frances teams up with Archie to investigate the car crash that killed most of Ford's family, it quickly becomes clear that this was no accident—hints of cover-ups, lies, and betrayals abound. The question is, just how far does the blackness creep through the heart of Castle Knoll? When Frances uncovers secrets kept by both Ford and Archie, she starts to wonder: What exactly has she gotten herself into?

As Annie and Frances investigate two new mysteries spanning decades, they’ll unlock the next level of secrets held in Castle Knoll’s dark heart.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kristen Perrin is the New York Times bestselling author of the Castle Knoll Murder Mystery series. She is originally from Seattle, Washington, where she spent several years working as a bookseller before moving to the UK to do a master's and PhD. She lives with her family in Surrey, where she can be found poking around vintage bookstores, stomping in the mud with her two kids, and collecting too many plants. Her middle-grade series, Attie and the World Breakers, was published in German, Dutch, and Polish. How to Solve Your Own Murder was her adult debut.

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1

November 1

Autumn has arrived in Castle Knoll so suddenly that it's as if the elements rearranged the landscape like set pieces in a theater while I slept. I'm so used to London's slow drizzle as the seasons change that this sudden burst of color has me dressing quickly and racing outside, like a child who's opened their eyes to see snow on Christmas morning.

I slow down only to let my coffee brew, but it's sealed in a thermos in no time. I'm kitted out in an oversized Fair Isle jumper and a pair of wellies I've yet to fully break in, determined to get them well and truly muddy today. Nothing says "I'm playing countryside dressing-up" quite like a pair of Wellington boots that are completely free of flecks of mud, and lately I'm having to try as hard as I can to convince the locals (and myself) that I'm not just here playacting as a country heiress.

It doesn't help that all my pockets are heavy with the nonsense of outdoors-I can't help but pick up every dropped acorn and shiny conker that I see-something that people who have spent their lives in Castle Knoll certainly do not do, unless they are under the age of ten. This morning, I breathe in the earthy aroma of decay that hangs in the air as I walk, hoping I might find some inspiration for my writing. Mist pools in the gardens, with the promise of a crisp, clear day ahead.

I'm constantly telling myself that country life suits me. That it feeds the writer in me and I've finally found the place where I belong. Most days I can keep that mantra going throughout my walk from the Gravesdown estate into the village. I tell myself that the atmosphere in the pub where I write is perfect for drumming up ideas for new murder mystery drafts. It's dimly lit, leaky, and full of odd comings and goings.

Each day I take my usual seat at the Dead Witch, right by the open fire, and peruse the menu with the absolute security of someone with a bank account that has recently expanded by about forty million pounds.

And most of the time, when I say to myself that the half scribbles I've made just need time to develop into something great, I believe me. Most days.

Today is not one of those days.

My walk through the mist quickly becomes a stomp, due to how awkward and stiff my new wellies are. It didn't take any time at all for my morning eagerness to become restlessness, but the countryside isn't the easy transition I thought it would be. Not after a lifetime in London, hopping around art galleries with my mum and living off cheese sandwiches. It's silly, but I miss those cheese sandwiches. Not the actual horrible cheap white bread and Day-Glo mustard. I think I just miss who I was when I ate them.

The biggest problem is the house. Gravesdown Hall in summer was an altogether warmer place-and I don't just mean temperature-wise. The light of full summer was constantly streaming through the diamond lattices of the high windows, making a kaleidoscope of the floor. The gardens were a work of art, and while I still employ the professional gardeners Aunt Frances used, her old gardener Archie Foyle has given up his hobby of shaping the huge topiary hedges that line the long drive. The lack of his whistling and endless patter makes the outdoors seem rather empty.

In August, Gravesdown Hall was this enigmatic place that was full of mysteries, full of just enough danger to make me feel alive, and most important of all-full of people. Archie's granddaughter, Beth, who used to cook for my great aunt Frances, was always popping in to bake something while we were all trying to get to the bottom of Great Aunt Frances's murder. A murder, I might add, that was foretold by a fortune-teller named Peony Lane in 1965, which Frances lived her life trying to prevent. Rather unsuccessfully as it turns out. I've tried to convince Beth to keep to her old schedule, but she says that these days the house makes her sad.

It has to just be in my head, but since I inherited the Gravesdown estate, I'm starting to feel like the village of Castle Knoll is giving me the cold shoulder. And this is a small place. If you're out and about, as I have been recently, you run into everyone. So if there are people you aren't seeing . . . there's a good chance they're avoiding you.

I unscrew the cap on my thermos and take a small scalding sip of its contents, wondering if it's just the fact that I'm an outsider here still. But once I solved Great Aunt Frances's murder, word definitely got around town that she had an entire room of files dedicated to town secrets.

Recently I thought of all the times I've wandered around the village trying to strike up a conversation with the postman or the bar staff at the Dead Witch, only to have them give me tight smiles in return. It's clear they've been wondering just how many of their secrets Aunt Frances collected, and how far I've gotten in my reading of them.

My thoughts drift back to the house, and again I wonder if staying here is the right choice. As autumn wraps its chilly arms around the estate, I'm finding the sun leaves fewer kaleidoscopes on the floor, and the garden has shifted from a place of welcoming roses to become a collection of thorns with long shadows. At night, knowing I'm the only person in this sprawling house of seventeen bedrooms, a library, three drawing rooms, a formal dining room, a solarium, and a kitchen the size of an entire London flat makes me feel like the only thing I want in the world is Mum playing her loud music, and a cheap cheese sandwich.

My wandering feet have reached the edge of the formal gardens, and as I go through the ornate metal gate out into the grassy fields that border the estate's woodland, I see a shape through the mist. I squint for a moment to try to make sense of it, wondering if one of the horses from Foyle Farms next door has gotten loose. The lumpy form is moving with a lumbering gait, but as it gets closer, I can see the shape of hunched shoulders and the tartan of a wool shawl.

"Hello?" I call out. Technically this is private land, but that doesn't stop the locals from walking through here. The shape doesn't answer, but as it finally emerges from the swirling clouds of moisture, I see a rather striking elderly woman standing in front of me. She's got long pure-white hair, which she's wearing in one thick plait that crowns her head. She's only hunched because of the chill, and she straightens her shoulders as she meets my eyes. She looks to be in her late seventies or early eighties but seems like someone who's been health conscious her whole life. The way she stands makes me think that she could probably out-yoga me in a heartbeat.

I open my mouth to tell her kindly that technically, she's trespassing, but then I realize that I'm so lonely that if she's a nice enough person, I'll happily invite her to walk with me. She gives me a curt nod that's strangely . . . knowing. There's no other way to describe it, really. Looking into this woman's eyes is like traveling through time. Her eyes are light green, and I notice she's got brown freckles in her irises. I've never seen anyone with irises like that before, and it gives the impression that one is looking at something rare, like an uncut emerald or a vein of gold running through an ordinary rock.

"I knew I'd find you here, Annie Adams," she says. Her voice has a honeyed texture to it, thick and deep, but spiked with something sharper. Like a hint of strong whisky to balance out the sweetness. I notice she wears chunky silver rings on each bony finger, some set with turquoise or amber, others with polished ammonites or tiny leaves preserved in resin. I catch the glint of many silver chains peeking out from where she's pulling the tartan shawl tight around her neck, and I suspect she's got a host of interesting things dangling from the end of each one.

"I . . ." I falter, then try...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593474058
• ISBN 13: 9780593474051
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Edel Music & Entertainment GmbH; https://www.edel.com; ; Neum�hlen 17; Hamburg; Hamburg; Deutschland